


False Danish Dogs

by colderblue



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Depiction of Violence, Minor Character Death, everyone is young and emo and struggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 08:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21071813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colderblue/pseuds/colderblue
Summary: In which Laertes kills Claudius, becomes king, and learns. Hamlet just needs to heal. A re-write of a fic from last year.





	False Danish Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> No proofreading we die like men

Laertes entered the throne room like a storm, his eyes dark and red rimmed, and his knuckles white on the grip of his sword. In his peripheral vision, he could see the King’s guard approaching him slowly, their own blades raised. He cursed under his breath, and slid his sword back into the scabbard at his belt. Claudius raised a hand, signaling to the guards to still as Laertes approached the throne, eyebrows quirked quizzically above cold eyes.

“Vile King,” Laertes spat, the words like venom dancing over his tongue, “give me my father.” The news of his father’s death, his slaughter in the queen’s own bedchamber, had set a fire to Laertes blood, creating a heat that he knew could only be soothed by the blood of the murderer. He had traveled back to Denmark as fast as he could, feeling as if his fury was fueling the wind in the sails.

“Calm, good Laertes,” said Queen Gertrude, face ashen as she glanced between Laertes and her husband. She shrank back as Laertes turned his glare on her. Claudius reached over, and covered one of her hands with one of his, before turning to Laertes and beginning to speak.

The king’s words did little to calm Laertes’ heart. He spun a tale of madness, of cruelty and blame. It was Prince Hamlet, he claimed, a madness has fallen on the prince, had taken his mind and heart and transformed it, creating a murderous rage. Laertes' thirst for revenge had almost transferred to Hamlet when the creak of the door sounded, and Ophelia entered.

Abandoning his place before the royals, Laertes strode toward her, taking in her ravaged and strange disposition. Ophelia’s dress was torn, and her hair falling in lank curls. She was smiling and crying at the same time, her eyes wild. She was gripping a handful of plants in her hand, dirt dark under her nails. Ophelia ran closing the distance between them, and crashed into Laertes' chest, gripping him in a tight embrace. He could feel her body shuddering, and wrapped her in his arms to comfort her, but she quickly pulled away, stumbling back.

She was giggling and crying at the same time, and roughly wiped at her eyes with the same hand that was holding the flowers, petals floating slowly to the ground. She sang and spoke madly, tossing flowers around, and Laertes could see the pain and madness in her soul.

His thoughts returned to the king’s explanation. How could two in the castle fall victim to such madness in such a short time? And not just any two, but those with power? The prince and the advisor’s daughter had both had their minds poisoned under Claudius’ rule. It became clear to him that neither youth could be blamed for their actions, clearly there was some illness in the castle, trickling from the highest peak of the king’s golden crown, to the lowest stone in the floor. As the courtiers and the guards stood transfixed by Ophelia’s babble, Laertes slowly crept towards the kings, silently sliding his sword from its scabbard, and in one stroke the king was dead.

Laertes called for his men, and they erupted into the throne room, standing at his back and holding off the guards. “The King,” Laertes said calm as he swept his gaze over the room, eyes lingering on his sister’s weepy smile, and the queen’s blood stained dress. “The king has perished, and his cursed hold on Denmark is no more.”

“King Laertes!” His men shouted, “Laertes King!” One broke from the cheering and knelt, picking the bloody crown up from where it lay on the floor and wiping it off with his sleeve, before turning and presenting it to Laertes. Laertes smiled slightly and placed it on his brow. “King Laertes,” he echoed quietly, “King Laertes indeed."

-

It was several days later when Hamlet arrived, a week before the official coronation. Laertes was meeting with his advisors in the throne room, discussing how best to ease the transition of power. Hamlet burst through the doors, and Laertes chuckled slightly at how similar he must have looked days earlier. The guards immediately aimed their spears at the youth, who glanced wildly between them, as if thinking about how to take on the entire group of men at once. He looked up at Laertes.

“I commented you for your actions, Laertes,” Hamlet said, manic energy bleeding through his voice, “but Claudius’ life was mine to take. He killed my father.” Grief displayed on Hamlet face, he raised his sword higher, “I’ll fight you for the throne!”

“You won’t,” Laertes said, making eye contact with the head guard, signaling for the man to start creeping behind Hamlet. “I won’t allow it. This castle has seen too much pain, Hamlet.” The younger man bristled at being referred to without his title.

“I am your prince! You will respect me as such!” Hamlet yelled. “You’re a coward!” He started to rush towards the throne, but the guards caught his arms, and pulled him back, his sword clattering to the floor. “Don’t set your dogs on me! Fight me yourself!”

“You’re not well, Hamlet,” Laertes said placatingly, walking towards Hamlet. “Nor is my sister, nor is Denmark. I am going to fix this kingdom, I am king.” He motioned to one of the guards, and in a practiced move, Hamlet was on his knees, arms behind his back. Laertes closed the difference between them in calculated strides. He crouched down before Hamlet, looking at him with pity. Hamlet bared his teeth and spat. Laertes shook his head slightly, and took Hamlet’s chin in his hand, tilting the prince's head back. “This is for the best. One day you’ll thank me,” he said, standing up and looking away from the fire burning in Hamlet’s eyes. “Take him to his rooms,” he said, turning his back as the guards dragged Hamlet away.

-

Three days later, Laertes stood in the hall before Hamlet’s door. He looked at the flower in his hands, twisting it’s fragile stem and letting the sweet perfume fill the air. A gift from Ophelia. He slipped the plant gently into his pocket and nodded at the guards barring the door, who moved aside and let him pass. He took a breath before opening the door, unsure of what to expect. The room was a mess, heavy wooden furniture broken and splintered on the floor. Laertes could see the meals that had been brought lay untouched by the door. “Hamlet?” Laertes called quietly, not immediately seeing the other. In the corner of the room, a pile of blankets shifted slightly, Hamlets pale hair and glaring eyes appearing.

“I want you out of my room.” He growled.

“I’d like to speak with you first,” Laertes responded. He could see Hamlet roll his eyes and scowl.

“What is there to talk about? You’ve stolen my revenge, my kingdom, what else could you want?” Hamlet said, his voice weary. He seemed to shift, somehow, gaze growing sharper and more steely. His eyes narrowed, and demeanor changed. “Do you want to kill me Laertes? Do you want to murder me like I did your father?” Hamlet drawled. “It would be easy. I’m unarmed.” He stood, blanket falling from his shoulders, revealing that the same dirty, threadbare clothes he’d been wearing days hanging off his frame. He was thin, jawbones sharper than Laertes remembered. Laertes ignored the mockery, looking Hamlet over in silence. Hamlet rolled his eyes again. “What?”

“You look… you look different.” Laertes said questioningly.

Hamlet jutted his chin out defensively, folding his arms. “You mean I don’t look like a prince? I’ve been at sea, sent on a death trip. I was kidnapped by pirates, Laertes. I’ve been having a rough time lately.” He stared at Laertes, as if daring him to challenge him, with tired and red eyes. Laertes decided to change the subject.

“You’ll keep your title as prince.” Laertes said. “I’m not locking you away from your kingdom, I’m just trying to help.” Hamlet scoffed, and Laertes sighed. “Hamlet, please try to understand, I’m doing the best that I can.” He took a breath. “Would you like anything? Any visitors? I could call for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern? Perhaps Horatio?” Hamlet ignored him, walking towards the window and looking out, eyes tracing the path of snowflakes just inches away from the glass.

“I’d like to see Horatio,” he finally said, reaching a shivering hand out to touch the glass. Laertes grabbed a blanket, and moved to wrap it around Hamlet’s shaking shoulders.

Laertes nodded. “I’ll send for him as soon as possible.” He nodded and moved to leave, but Hamlets hand shot out, gripping his wrist. There was silence for a moment, Hamlet seemingly wrestling with what to say.

“Please don’t leave,” he whispered, refusing to meet Laertes eyes. “I don’t want to be alone.” Laertes nodded, sitting in one of the unbroken chairs as Hamlet stayed by the window, climbing up to sit on the ledge, pressing his forehead against the glass, still staring at the snowflakes. “What was it like? Killing him?” He asked.

Laertes bit his lip before answering. “I did what I had to do. He was the cause of my father’s death, not you. You were just a pawn, he was using you.” Hamlet nodded slightly.

“How is Ophelia?” He asked, shooting a quick look at Laertes before returning to the window. Laertes sighed, unsurprised that the news of his sister’s condition had reached the prince.

“She’s in shock. Too much has happened at once for poor Ophelia. The doctors and healers that I’ve hired are hopeful, but what she needs most is time.” Laertes said, trailing his eyes across the sharp cut of Hamlet’s cheekbones. “I’m hopeful for your recovery as well.” Hamlet looked over at him.

“I’m not mad.” He insisted,” It’s an act, I was trying to find out my uncle’s plot. I’m not mad.” Laertes shook his head.

“You’re not well Hamlet,” he stressed, “It might have started as act, but you’re not well.”

“Maybe,” Hamlet mumbled. They sat in silence for a while, and Laertes watched as Hamlet’s eyes fluttered closed, breathing getting deeper and slower. Laertes rose, and lifted the prince up, carrying his sleeping form to his bed, covering his thin form with several blankets.

He remembered the flower in his pocket, and pulled it out, smoothing the slight creases in the petals. He brought the marygold to his lips, “for grief,” he whispered, laying it on Hamlet’s pillow, and leaving the room.

-

Weeks passed, and delicately falling snow turned into a blanket of white. Fires burned in the castle fireplaces at all hours, staving off the chill that threatened to breach the stone walls. Laertes grew into his role of king, learning the challenges of ruling and managing a kingdom. He’d had to eliminate several officials, sending them away when their allegiance to Claudius continued to cloud their work. He’d taken Horatio on as an advisor, despite the scoffs of the older courtiers that one so young could only be a fool. He’d been working on reaching peace with young Fortinbras, forging a connection between their houses in the pain that he, Laertes, and Hamlet had all felt.

Ophelia was improving greatly. He’d spoken with the healers, and they believed that it was an overabundance of stress that had caused her such harm, and now that she had been given time to process, she would recover. She’d run into Hamlet several times, on his rare excursions from his room, but he did his best to avoid everyone.

Laertes visited with Hamlet nearly everyday, usually bringing a tray of tea and sweets. Some days were worse than others, Hamlet would yell and cry and rage, and some days he would refuse to speak. Some days he was better, and he would laugh and tell jokes. On his best days, he would assist Laertes and Horatio as they drafted decrees and treaties, having trained for the job his entire life.

It was the good days that Laertes liked best, sitting by the window with a jar of honey being passed between the two, Hamlet’s bony shoulders pressing against Laertes as he laughed and watched the snow.

“Are we friends?” Hamlet asked one day, stirring his tea, glancing up through strands of his pale hair. Laertes looked at him, surprised.

“I should hope so,” he responded. “After all, what happened the last time the king and the prince disliked each other?” Hamlet laughed, and bumped their shoulders together.

“I’m glad.” Hamlet responded, smiling. “I don’t think I have a lot of friends, other than Horatio.”

“What about Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?” Laertes questioned. The two had returned from England several days ago, tripping over themselves to apologize and swear that they hadn’t known about Claudius letter, and telling of how the English king had almost ordered them executed when he’d read it. Hamlet snorted.

“They’re friends, I guess, because I’ve known them so long. But they’re not the best. And they’re not very smart.” He said, and Laertes nodded.

“A bit like chickens running around with their heads cut off,” he agreed, causing Hamlet to laugh. Laertes liked the sound of Hamlet’s laugh. It was soft and joyful, like a song that could fill a room, and Laertes made a mental note to try to hear it more. He smiled and sipped his tea slowly as he watched Hamlet.

As Hamlet caught his breath, he noticed Laertes looking at him and flushed red, ducking his head. He tucked a lock of his hair behind the ear. It had been growing steadily for a while, and now reached halfway to his shoulders. Laertes was struck with the thought that the style made him look good, and a little wild, and beautiful. He pushed the thought out of his mind, shaking his head slightly, unsure of where it came from. “I was hoping that you would join me for dinner in a few days. Fortinbras is coming to finalize the treaties, and I’ve arranged a private dinner with him, Horatio, Ophelia and myself. I think you’d make a good asset to the meal.” And God, Laertes thought, why did that sound so awkward? Why did he feel like he was saying more than he meant?

  
“A state dinner? Are you sure?” Hamlet questioned, looking worried. “I don’t know if I’m ready? Or even welcome?”

“You are a prince, Hamlet.” Laertes answered. “You’re always welcome.” Hamlet turned red again, and Laertes found himself staring at the bright tint.

“Very well.” Hamlet said. “I’ll go.”

-

The night of the dinner arrived quickly. Laertes had been preparing all night, but Fortinbras’ arrival shocked him. He knew, logically, that everyone referred to the other ruler as “young Fortinbras” and that their youth was partly driving the connection between the two of them, as two young kings in a sea of old men.

Fortinbras was much younger than Laertes expected. Laertes himself was twenty five, and Hamlet was only twenty, but Fortinbras still had the gangly, awkward look of a teenager. He whispered to Horatio at his left, wanting to know the other king’s age, and then man whisked away to gather more information. He’d learned that Fortinbras was eighteen, even if he looked slightly younger. Laertes felt a pang in his heart when he realized that he was the same age as Ophelia, and already had the weight of losing a father and running a nation on his shoulders.

The king had dark hair, and was cloaked in the red and blue of his nation. The monarchs approached each other, and shook hands before Fortinbras turned to great the others. He turned to Ophelia and paused. Fortinbras floundered for a minute before Ophelia stretched out a hand. He turned red (a much brighter glow than Hamlet, Laertes noted), and brought the hand to his lips. Laertes heard Hamlet stifle a laugh, and at the edge of his vision could see Horatio lean over and whisper to him, the two laughing slightly. Luckily, Fortinbras didn’t seem to notice.

“Princess Ophelia,” Fortinbras said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Ophelia smiled at him.

“Likewise,” she said, “I’m so glad to meet you.” Fortinbras turned red, and Ophelia giggled. Laertes frowned and cleared his throat, and Fortinbras moved to greet Hamlet and Horatio. Ophelia turned to him, and whispered fervently.

“Am I princess now? I don’t know how to act like a princess? Laertes, you didn’t tell me I was a princess now?” Laertes put a placating hand on her shoulder and leaned down.

“You’re the sister of the king, and that makes you a princess. And you’re acting fine.” He responded. “Let’s move to dinner,” he said, “there’s been enough politics for today.”

The dinner went well enough. The private nature of the dinner was enough to let some levels of properness fall away, and Horatio and Hamlet regaled the table with exaggerated tales of their exploits through the years.

“We’ve grown up in the same castle Hamlet,” Ophelia chided at one point. “And that story wasn’t half as noble as you make it out to be.” She turned to Fortinbras, who was watching her with rapt attention. “See, what happened was……”

-

It felt like things could last forever, in the peace that Laertes had forged. It had been half a year since he’d taken over, nearly three months since the meeting with Fortinbras. The country was healing. Laertes could see it from the windows of the castle, in the ways that the sun seemed to shine a little brighter, and the economy grew. The alliance with Norway was strong as ever, and he’d begun thinking of making it stronger, seeing the constant flow of letters sent between Ophelia and Fortinbras.

There was unsettlement murmuring though. Claudius still had supporters. Laertes had known that slaying the former king couldn’t slay all of his ideals, but the courtiers who had supported him had been contained to only whispers. But the whispers couldn’t stay silent.

It was a hot summer day when the screams started. Those who had supported Claudius were the old, the wealthy, and they had enough money and power their own militia. Fighting filled the halls of Elsinore. Laertes ordered his guard to see Ophelia to safety, and drew his own sword and the sound of fighting neared the throne room.

He managed to fight off several fighters, moving through the castle and moving people to safety when he heard a familiar yell. Laertes ran toward the sound, searching for Hamlet. The prince stood surrounded by enemies, blade flashing, blood splattered across his face. In his eyes, Laertes could see the same crazed look that he had been met with all those months ago. He felt his heart clench, and ran towards him.

The two fought back to back for what felt like hours before Laertes heard Hamlet scream.

“Laertes!” Shouted Hamlet, terror and pain bleeding through his voice, “Laertes!” Laertes turned, seeing Hamlet being dragged off by three men, sword laying useless on the floor, blood sluggishly bleeding from a cut on his forehead. Laertes saw red.

Laertes couldn’t remember the rest of the battle, but Claudius’ men lay bleeding on the stones, and Hamlet’s unconscious body was cradled in his arms.

The failed coup changed Laertes. He saw the danger in being king, and knew he had to work harder to protect what was his. He had Ophelia moved into the rooms across from his, and had Hamlet moved into his own room to heal, Laertes sleeping on the floor.

Hamlet’s battle wound had gotten infected, and he spent weeks wracked with fever, falling in and out of a troubled sleep. Laertes stayed with him as often as he could, finding it difficult to drag himself away from the ill prince to attend to his duties. Ophelia or Horatio stayed with Hamlet whenever he couldn’t.

Hamlet healed slowly, despite the Laertes hiring the best doctors and healers in the land. Laertes sat at his bedside, not quite understanding the possessiveness that grew as he gripped Hamlet’s weak hand, whispering against the pale skin “mine, mine, mine.”

The fever broke, and Hamlet slowly pulled himself out of sleep, groaning. He smiled weakly at Laertes. “Yours,” he whispered hoarsely, “yours.”

-

The stress chaos of the battle had sent both Hamlet and Ophelia back in their progress somewhat. Ophelia picked at her dress when nervous, mumbling flowers and their meanings under her breath. Hamlet didn’t leave Laertes side, standing to the side of the throne at all times, fingers curled tightly on the handle of his sword. Laertes knew they could work through it, they had before.

It was the one year anniversary of Laertes’ takeover when Laertes commissioned a new crown for Hamlet. A delicate, golden circlet studded with blue gems that shone the same color of his eyes. He’d presented it to him in private, late at night in their room- and it was their room, Hamlet never moved out- illuminated only by the light of the moon through the window, and the fire in the hearth.

“You’re mine.” Laertes said reverently as he placed the crown on Hamlet’s brow. “And my prince should always be shrouded in beautiful things.”

Hamlet reached out grabbed Laertes' wrist, pulling him closer, the two staring into each other’s eyes. “What does this mean?” He asked, stepping closer. Laertes raised a hand and tilted Hamlet’s chin up, watching his eyelids flutter. He dragged his thumb across Hamlet’s lips.

“It can mean whatever you want.” He whispered. Hamlet sighed.

“The kingdom won’t like what I want.” He murmured.

“I’m the king. It doesn’t matter if they like it or not.” Laertes said, chuckling.

“Fine. I want you.” Hamlet said, pressing a gentle kiss to Laertes lips. “I want to be yours.”

“You are. You’re mine.” said Laertes, as he pulled Hamlet closer and brought their lips together again. Outside the window, snowflakes spiraled through the air, twisting and falling in the night sky.


End file.
